The Theban lyre but to the sun
Gave forth at morn its answering tone;
So mine but echoed when the one,
One sun-lit glance was o'er it thrown.
The Memnon sounds no more!—my lyre,
A veil upon thy strings is flung;
I may not wake the chords of fire—
The words which burn upon my tongue.
Fill high the cup! I may not sing;
My hand the crowning buds will twine:
Pour, till the wreath I o'er it fling,
Shall mingle with the rosy wine.
III.
No lay of love!—the lava stream
Hath left its trace on heart and brain;
No more! no more! the maddening theme
Will wake the slumbering fires again.
Fling back the shroud on buried years—
Hail, to the ever blooming hours!
We'll fill Time's glass with ruby tears,
And twine his bald old brow with flowers.
Fill high! fill high! I may not sing—
Strike forth the Teïan lay divine,
Till fire from every glowing string
Shall mingle with the flashing wine!
Ione.
[THE CHIEF OF HIS TRIBE.]
A SKETCH OF THE LIFE AND TIMES OF JOHN THOMAS TUMBLER, JR.
'And here let me charge you, my son, that you consider nothing which bears the image of God beneath your notice, or unsusceptible of valuable lessons. The beggar imploring alms at your hands, the unhappy victim of vice, or the prey of evil passions, may speak with a voice so loud, that during your whole life, the monitory tones shall not wholly die away in your ear.'
Magnus Gonsalva.
The primary study of all mankind ever has been, and ever will be, the end by which they may attain happiness. All our energy, all our reason, and all our ingenuity, are directed to the prosecution of this one common object; but with what success, we leave those to answer who have grown old in the game of human life. Our existence is commenced and continued in its pursuit. We toil in its chase, from birth until death, with the most assiduous and unceasing application. But do we obtain it, at last? Go ask the worn-out debauchee, or the chartered libertine. Go ask the rich man in his castle, or the poor man in his hut. Ask the faded beauty, or the blooming girl. Ask the monarch, the mendicant, the world, if they have yet enjoyed one hour of real happiness—one hour, unalloyed by the remembrance of the past, or the fears of the future. It is, in truth, a shadow as intangible as our own; an ignis fatuus of our being. But ah! we cannot discover this until too late. When death is about to drop the curtain upon the closing scene of the drama of life, we may become sensible of our error; until that moment, we are in chase of a gilded phantom, that often drags us through paths of guilt and sin, and repaying us nothing in the end.